


Pills

by CykaSpace



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Depression, Dissociation, Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Self-Hatred, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23601241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CykaSpace/pseuds/CykaSpace
Summary: I know it's not exactly he greatest but I needed an escape so I wrote this. Maybe triggering, I don't really know. The title is from the song Pills by Joji.
Relationships: Chris Elliot/Ryan Ashter
Kudos: 1





	Pills

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's not exactly he greatest but I needed an escape so I wrote this. Maybe triggering, I don't really know. The title is from the song Pills by Joji.

Chris stares up at the ceiling of the cheap motel and sighs. His phone vibrates on the table beside him and he groggily leans over to pick it up. He doesn’t understand why; he knows it’s either gonna be from his ex-girlfriend or Ryan and he knows he doesn’t want anything to do with either of them, yet he grasps his phone with a pale, unsteady hand regardless. His brain is muddled, sedated from the drugs he took maybe too much of and the alcohol that he drank, in his opinion, too little of, so, when he finally manages to stop his hands from shaking just enough to open his phone, he doesn’t remember why he grabbed it in the first place. He sighs again and drops it onto his bare torso, feeling the solid  _ thump  _ of the device echo through his body.

He hadn’t set out to take or drink anything, though the thought was always there, lingering, like a fog of “what if?”s behind his eyes. Eventually, those “what if?”s turned into “what now?”s. Every cheap bottle of alcohol he gulped down and every pill he nearly choked on further distanced him from reality but Chris just couldn’t find it in himself to stop.

He turns on his side, feeling the cold, rough motel sheets scratch his legs as he does, and his phone falls onto the mattress beside him, vibrating again. Chris lies still for a moment before shakily picking up the phone and throwing it limply off the bed. He knows he’ll give in and pick it up in a matter of minutes, though; he’s not strong enough to leave it. Chris hears the muffled buzz of the stupid fucking thing and shuffles over onto his other side and slams his head into the stiff pillow beneath him, maybe a little too hard. His pounding headache is worsened by the force with which he throws his head down and a choked sob escapes his throat. He cringes at the sound, hating the way his voice sounds, dirty and gritty and not like others’. 

Chris rubs his eye with his palm, feeling the dried tears on his cheeks as he pulls his hand down his face. He feels  _ weak _ . Not necessarily physically, but emotionally. He feels pathetic for crying, feels like he doesn’t deserve to cry, feels like it’s not right to, that  _ he _ has no right to.

Eventually, he sits up and leans blindly over to the bedside table for the bottle of whiskey, knocking his glasses onto the floor as he does and he knows that this isn’t good for him, knows that this’ll most likely worsen things, but he just wants a drink. He tries to convince himself that he’ll only have a bit as he brings the bottle to his lips, but he knows that that’s a lie, knows that he’ll probably finish the half-empty bottle within a few minutes, but tries to make himself believe the lie he’s telling because what else can he do? 

Chris takes a few large gulps of the drink before placing the bottle back and diving to the other side of the bed to get his phone. He knows he’s weak for doing this, hates himself for giving in and grabbing the fucking thing, but he does it anyway. He opens the phone with sweaty hands and has a look at the messages. The majority of them are from his ex, Alesha, telling him that she’s gonna kill herself if he doesn’t pick up (Chris already knows this is an empty threat) and the rest are from Ryan. Chris doesn’t even bother with those, he can guess what they’re about. Sighing, he drops his phone to the floor again and this time it lands on his glasses. Who cares, he’s already cracked the lenses anway, what’s a bit more damage gonna fucking do to them? Besides, Chris thinks he deserves the headaches he gets without them. 

He tries to convince himself that this won’t last long, that this will be over tomorrow but it doesn’t work and some parts of him are glad that this pain will last longer; he feels guilty when he’s happy, feels like he doesn’t deserve anything good. 

The pills and alcohol are good, so good,  _ too _ good, but he knows that these will destroy him and he knows that that’s what he deserves. Chris clenches his fist around the neck of the bottle and pours the rest of the drink down his throat, tears pricking his eyes at the sharp sensation that burns him. He stares straight ahead of him as the bottle falls limply to the carpeted floor from his hand. Chris sighs and falls back onto the bed with a thud, feeling the broken springs of the mattress dig into his back. 

Chris yelps when his phone rings, jumping, the sharp sound piercing the thick, dark silence of his motel room. He drags his body to where his phone is and grabs blindly for it before checking the contact of the person who scared him: it was Ryan. Chris blinks blearily at the bright light of the phone until it stops ringing before turning it to silent and shoving it under his pillow. He doesn’t want to hear what Ryan has to say, knows it’s gonna just be him yelling about Chris not answering texts or calls or emails or whatever the fuck else he tried to conact him on. And Chris decides he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want Ryan’s help anymore, decides that he already tried for Ryan’s help and got barely anything out of it and while he knows that Ryan only tries to make him feel better, his words of comfort come across as self-centered and subsequently don’t help at all. Chris knows that he doesn’t help himself  _ at all  _ by always turning back to Ryan and getting the same speech about Chris being the only true friend he had and all that shit but he can’t help himself a lot of the time, always feeling like he needs to at least tell  _ someone _ what’s going through his head.

Not tonight though. Nobody needs to know he’s here. Nobody should  _ want  _ to know he’s here.

Chris drifts in and out of consciousness, occasionally dozing off but always waking himself up again out of fear that someone might need something from him. He’s always had that problem, the fear that someone might get hurt if he isn’t there. Alesha exploited that part of him for the longest time until he finally broke it off with her, though she still threatens suicide when Chris doesn’t answer her texts or calls. And even though Chris knows that he’s no longer involved with her, he still worries; he guesses he always has, even from a young age when he worried about his dad’s health almost constantly. 

Chris kicks off the thin motel sheets and gingerly brings himself into a seated position, swinging his pale, unshaven legs over the side of the bed, his feet landing solidly against the blue carpeted floor. A sudden wave of nausea flows through him and his eyes widen before he sprints to the grimy bathroom opposite the bed. Chris stumbles over the cracked tiles of the bathroom floor and falls to his knees before grabbing the rim of the toilet and emptying the alcohol and pills he’s taken into it. Once he thinks that’s it, Chris sits back on his heels and collapses against the cold bathroom wall. He looks at his hands, his nails bitten too low and his skin peeling and that’s when he finally breaks down, his body shaking with empty, silent sobs and collapsing in on itself. He brings his hands to his face and feels the hot, wet tears pour down it, knowing that this isn’t how he’s supposed to react to this, knows that he’s weak for reacting this way, knows that everyone would be so disappointed (not that they’d ever had high expectations for him in the first place, he was a walking mistake that should never have been born). Chris balls his hands into fists and punches the tiles, knowing that the harsh throb of pain after he did was what he deserved for doing this. He punches the tiles again and again and again until he physically can’t move his body anymore. He backs himself further against the tiled bathroom wall and cradles his hands, rocking himself back and forth. Part of him wishes he’d broken his fist against the floor. 

The rocking helps calm him down and after a while, he begins to feel tired. Chris knows that he’ll throw up if he stands, so he opts for sitting in the bathroom and closing his eyes, leaning his head back and feeling the thump as it connects with the wall. His hands hurt like a bitch and Chris knows that he’s going to have to pick up some bandages later on when he can finally stand. A sigh escapes his mouth and Chris closes his eyes, falling asleep to the rhythmic thrum of pain through his body.

He wakes some time late the next day, having slept almost thirteen hours in the cold, unwelcome bathroom. Chris looks around himself with tired eyes, the events of the previous day flooding back to him, his brain having opened a dam of unsolicited knowledge. Chris stands slowly, shakily, and reaches for the door to help him. His neck hurts and so do his legs and  _ oh fuck _ do his hands hurt so much. 

Chris is able to stand this time, though he feels that familiar pang of nausea wash over him. He makes his way over to his overnight bag containing yesterday’s clothes and pulls them on, ignoring the brown stain on his grey hoodie and the marks of mud and whiskey on his jeans as he ties his laces. Chris grabs his rucksack and stuffs his keys, wallet and the bag of pills inside it, followed by his almost-empty can of deodorant after he sprays himself with it in a last-ditch attempt to be the tiniest bit presentable. He knows he looks like shit, knows he probably smells that way, too, but he didn’t pack any toiletries so he’ll just have to make do with deodorant. He really didn’t want to leave here, didn’t want to go out and face the outside world, but his hands were killing him and he didn’t have anything to take care of them so unless he wanted to sit in considerable pain for the next few days (though he felt like he deserved the pain, if he was being honest), he’d have to leave the grimy comfort of his motel room for at least half an hour. Sighing, Chris zipped up his rucksack and grabbed the motel keys before exiting the room, not looking back once.

The air was cold and it’d obviously rained while Chris was asleep. He wishes he’d brought a coat with him, but it doesn’t really matter. Chris knows there are a few pharmacies near the motel and sets out in the vague direction of the closest one, well-aware that people were eyeing him with disgusted looks. He probably looked (and smelt) homeless, now he thinks about it. Chris couldn’t do much about it, however, and continued West to the pharmacy.

The rain had started to fall again by the time Chris reached the place, and he was glad to be inside, if only for a few minutes. Maybe he could get a bus back? Or a taxi, depending on how much money he had left after coming here. Chris browses the shelves until a lady behind him speaks.

‘Do you need any help, sir?’ she asks, trying her best to be polite despite Chris’ current state. Chris shakes his head, no, and attempts to give her a smile. 

‘I’m alright, thanks,’ he replies, disgusted by the way his voice sounds. The lady smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

‘Okay. If you have any queries, then do ask.’ With that, the lady walks off and disappears out of sight. Chris barely remembers what she looks like. 

He continues to search the shelves until he finds the bandages. Chris picks up two rolls along with some aspirin and paracetamol as well, for good measure. He knows he’ll down these with liquor later on when he inevitably makes his way to the off-licence somewhere nearby.

He walks over to the self-service checkout, not wanting to face a member of staff in his current state, and pays for his items before shoving them into his backpack and leaving the shop. The rain is still hammering down when Chris leaves the shop, but he’s not really in a sunny mood anyway, so he enjoys the cool feeling of rain on his face and hair. Maybe he’ll walk back, then. Chris reaches in his back pocket for his phone but feels nothing. He frantically reaches for his other trouser pockets before shoving his hands into his hoodie. With a sudden, swift punch to his stomach, he realises that he’s left his phone at the motel. He vaguely knows where he is, but he wants to go to the off-license that he  _ knows _ is nearby but doesn’t know exactly where. Chris sighs dejectedly and walks back in the direction of the motel. Maybe they sell alcohol there.

When Chris opens the door to his room and closes it behind him, he screams and falls to the floor, staring straight ahead of him at his bed. Ryan sits on the end, his phone having just been thrown out of his hand at Chris’ sudden cry.

‘R-Ryan, what-’ Chris gulps, his hands sweaty as he clenches and unclenches them out of nervous habit. He doesn’t want to face reality, not here, not right now, not when he’s like this. Ryan, still clearly startled by Chris’ scream, picks up his phone and walks over to the taller man slumped against the doorframe. He reaches out a hand to Chris after he pockets his phone. Chris flinches and curls closer to the door, his bag pressing heavily against his back. Eventually, Chris shakily reaches his pale, bloodied hand to meet Ryan’s and is lifted to his feet. Ryan momentarily ignores his hand and leads Chris to the bed where he sits him down and takes off his backpack. Chris doesn’t look at Ryan, doesn’t feel as though he actually  _ can _ , so he looks at the floor and the ceiling and his shoes, eyeing the raindrops and splashes of mud. He feels the bed dip next to him, aware that Ryan’s sat down next to him. There are so many thoughts racing around his head and he can’t organise them and he hates the way he feels about this, about himself, about this shit motel, about the stinging bruises on his knuckles, about how he didn’t get alcohol in the end, about  _ Ryan _ . He feels Ryan lean behind him to get the rucksack and he feels when Ryan places it between them, hoping that Chris will tell him what’s in there. Chris remains silent, observing his shoes and tuning in to the sound of rain pattering against the window pane. Ryan clears the silence.

‘I know you’re probably wondering how I found you,’ he begins, seemingly slightly nervous though not wanting (or willing, for that matter) to show it. Chris swallows dryly and nods, eyes still fixed on his shoes.

‘I, um, I called your landlord and he said you’d set off for some motel North of the flat, so I googled motels up North and searched until I found the one you were in.’ Guilt, sadness, anger mixed with something Chris really didn’t want to think about mingled together in Chris’ head. Finally, Chris brings his eyes to meet Ryan’s and he immediately regrets it, tears pricking the corners of his own. Ryan pushes the backpack behind him and scoots closer to Chris before wrapping his arm around his shoulders and resting his head there. Chris tenses, not sure how to react. Ryan runs his hand up and down Chris’ soaked hoodie and Chris eventually melts into the touch as much as he doesn’t want to. Ryan sighs and holds Chris tighter, having remembered the grounding technique Chris had told him a few years ago. Chris is surprised he remembered.

‘I’m sorry,’ Chris whispers, not daring to speak any louder out of fear that he’d break down. He feels Ryan nod, his soft brown hair brushing against Chris’ chin.

‘I know,’ Ryan replies. Chris looks down at Ryan and Ryan looks up to meet his gaze, his hazel eyes soft and warm and Chris wishes that he could fall into them, melt into the mix of green and brown that looked up at him. He knows he should push Ryan away, knows he’ll only get hurt if he carries on staying like this like he normally does, but he doesn’t want to move away. Ryan sits up a bit and turns to face Chris properly. 

‘What’s in the bag?’ he asks quietly, patiently awaiting Chris’ reply. 

‘Bandages,’ Chris’ voice breaks and he coughs a little. ‘Uh, my w-wallet, keys, deodorant, painkillers. And, um…’ Chris hesitates, eyes lingering on the backpack.

‘And, uh…’ Chris swallows. He looks back to Ryan, the brunette’s eyes calm and patient. Chris caves.

‘Pills.’ Chris watches as Ryan sends him a sympathetic smile and he knows he hates Ryan; hates him for caring, hates him for even bothering to find him. Ryan gently picks up the semi-dry rucksack and unzips it before taking out the contents. It feels as though it takes forever, the two men sitting in complete silence as one of them empties a bag. The final item Ryan takes out is the bag of pills.

‘What are they?’ Ryan asks, concern lacing his voice. Chris hates him for it.

‘Adderall,’ Chris replies, too tired to even bother trying to hide anything. Ryan nods before putting everything but the bandages back into the bag and dumping it down onto the floor.

‘Wait here a sec,’ Ryan says before walking to the bathroom. Chris hears the toilet flush and remembers that he didn’t flush after he’d thrown up. Ryan must think he’s disgusting. He hears cabinets open and close and Ryan walks out of the bathroom after a minute or so, some wipes and a tube of something in his hands. Ryan takes his seat next to Chris again and it’s almost as if he’d never moved in the first place. Ryan opens the wipes, gently bringing Chris’ hands into his lap and begins to clean the mess of cuts and bruises.

‘Can I ask what happened?’ Ryan asks, eyes focused on cleaning the wounds. Chris inhales sharply at the sensation and he hesitates.

‘I punched the tiles in the bathroom,’ he mumbles, unable to look at Ryan. Ryan simply nods.

‘Okay, why did you do that?’ 

‘Angry.’ Chris knows he’s not being helpful here, but he doesn’t want to be. He wishes Ryan wasn’t here. Ryan hums and moves onto the other hand. The room falls silent again.

Once Ryan had finished cleaning and bandaging Chris’ hands, he helps Chris strip down to his boxers and walks him to the bath. Chris watches as Ryan runs the water, checking the temperature with his elbow like you would for a baby. Chris strips himself of his boxers and uneasily steps into the bath, Ryan sitting on the lid of the toilet, his gaze politely averted until Chris is under the bubbles. Ryan doesn’t watch as Chris half-heartedly washes his hair and body, just listens and provides an air of comfort for Chris if he needs it. Chris hates him for it.

Ryan hands him a towel as Chris steps out of the bath and walks over to his overnight bag to pull out some clothes.

‘I didn’t think you’d pack much, so I brought you some clothes,’ Ryan says as he makes his way to the soaking wet Chris standing in the bathroom. Chris can’t take it anymore.

‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ he asks, his voice low and surprisingly steady. Ryan looks him dead in the eye.

‘Because I care, you’re my best mate and I’d be lonely without you,’ comes the reply. Chris fights the urge to roll his eyes. That’s all Ryan ever says when Chris is like this.

‘Right,’ Chris mumbles, ‘of course.’ Ryan’s frown doesn’t go unnoticed by Chris as the taller takes the clothes from him and begins to change.

The clothes Ryan had given him were really comfortable; a worn blue t-shirt and grey jogging bottoms along with a fresh pair of boxers that Ryan had brought and not worn. By the time Chris is changed, Ryan is, too, and is lying on top of the bed covers, phone in hand. He looks up when Chris shuffles in, a small, sweet smile spreading across his face.

‘Feel any better?’ he asks. The question is completely innocent, there’s no ulterior motive behind it; it’s just a question asked out of pure curiosity. And as much as Chris wants to say no, wants to force Ryan out of his room, he finds himself nodding.

‘Yeah,’ he mumbles, coming to lie next to Ryan on the hard mattress. Ryan smiles again and Chris feels that heat rise up in his chest again. He forces it down. Ryan turns back to his phone and Chris digs under his pillow for his, finding it and sticking it on charge.

Minutes pass between the two before Chris gives in and turns to face Ryan.

‘Uh, would-would it be too much to ask if you could stay with me tonight?’ Chris whispers. Ryan clicks his phone off and places it to the side of him before facing the younger man.

‘Not at all,’ he replies, his voice only slightly louder than Chris’. Chris lets go a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding and smiles thankfully at Ryan. Ryan doesn’t need any verbal thanks, he knows what Chris means. Chris moves so he’s under the covers and Ryan leans over to shut off the lamp. And if Chris curls up closer to Ryan than he probably should, well, no one needs to know.


End file.
